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Monday, March 20, 2017

I’ve been nostalgic this morning, thinking about the first
novel I wrote and one of the characters, Rhiannon. I remember how sad she
seemed and how much I was inspired by her mysterious strength. She was so
compelling that I rewrote the whole story from her point of view and then added
a couple books about her. One scene in particular has been recurring over and
over in my mind, so I’ve decided to share it. I hope you enjoy my words from so
long ago.

~ O ~

The warm morning of the Sun Season Ceremony complemented the
bright display at Stone Meadow; tall colorful banners flapped on long poles and
thin trails of white smoke lifted to the cloudless sky, announcing their host
camps and seasoned offerings. Bards in purple tunics, tooling their whistles
and drums, mingled in the growing crowd. It was a celebration, and it was
summer at its peak. The solstice. I must have been grinning—I could feel my
cheeks stretch as we rolled the handcart to our familiar camping spot at the
southern edge of the field.

Leila was enchanting. She wore her golden shawl of the Fae
with its hood pulled back behind her shoulders. The shawl covered a white gown
that trailed to thin leather sandals on her feet. Small white flowers decorated
tight braids in her dark hair. Leila swung her arms out and danced in place—the
golden shawl draped to the ground like wings—and announced her arrival to anyone
watching, showering the air with sparkling gold. “This is wonderful!” she sang,
while skipping steps and dancing in circles. Her movement matched the mood of
the meadow, and she wasn’t the only one dancing in the tall grass.

When we reached our site, Mother and I began unloading the
cart. I piled blankets, and pillows, and bowls, and goblets onto small piles
around our camp. Then I went into the forest that bordered the meadow and
collected an armful of dry branches from the undergrowth. When I returned,
Leila was still dancing.

“Do you know the steps?” she asked. She tiptoed for a moment
and sprung into a leap forward. “I’ll wager you can guess.”

I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of my sandals and
joined her. Then we danced in the grass. A faerie and her Giver, we wove a
circle of crimson and gold. I inhaled the fresh air—it carried a hint of hickory
smoke—and whispered the words that I had often sung to myself at the
celebrations. The songs we danced had no lyrics, but I had created my own
verses, as many faeries did, and many would continue to imagine.